


Good Hands

by aileenrose



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst-lite, B&B In Vermont, Bed & Breakfast, Bottom Cas, Brief Bottom Dean, Fluff, Handyman Dean, M/M, Owner Cas, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2016-06-24
Packaged: 2018-07-17 23:40:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7290772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aileenrose/pseuds/aileenrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas is the owner of a failing—and falling apart—B&B.<br/>Dean might be able to help with that. Dean’s good with his hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Hands

Grace Hill, Vermont. There’s really no reason for Dean to be in the area, beyond that he’s between jobs and he’s on to the next one, wherever that is. Dean isn’t too picky.

Before this he was in west New York and before that, Pennsylvania. Mostly odd jobs. He’ll do anything if the pay’s good, and it normally is for someone with his skill set—roofing, plumbing, wiring, any and all carpentry. He hadn’t disliked New York or Pennsylvania, just felt the itch to go when he got bored. Packed all his tools into the trunk of his Impala and moved on.

There’s a highway being built to circumvent Grace Hill—which is really just a dot on the map, all things considered—but it’s still under construction, which is why Dean’s driving down this seriously barren country road, looking for a sign which’ll redirect him back towards the highway, but offuckincourse backwoods Vermont has as many road signs as it does skyscrapers. He’s getting pissed and antsy for a drink when he sees a sign—not for the highway, but this paint-flaking, dinged-up sign that reads, _Grace Hill B &B_, just before a gravel-road turn-off.

What the hell, he thinks. The sun’s setting anyhow, and he doesn’t have any place to get to in a hurry. He slows down and turns into the B&B’s long driveway. Even in the low light, he can make out the trees flanking both sides of the Impala, leaves the same color as the day’s last sun. The driveway takes a bend and a dip and then the land levels out to a large, Victorian house set on a cleared acre. The trees’ leaves are reflected in the windows there, too, orangey-red bouquets of light in every pane of glass. Dean lets out a low whistle. It’s a hell of a sight better than most of the motels he normally shuffles in and out of.

The drive fans into a wide loop before the front porch. Only two others cars are parked there.  Gravel crunches under the tires as he cuts the engine. When Dean steps out of the car he stops to stretch his back until he hears a satisfying number of pops. Beyond that, the only things he can hear are the ripple of the trees in the wind and distant birdcall. This place really is in the middle of nowhere.

Dean pops the trunk to get his duffel out and then he climbs the steps—which squeak alarmingly beneath him—and goes through the door, which leads him into a narrow foyer with a curving staircase on the left. There’s a desk pretty much right there, with a few pamphlets and a wicker basket of mints and a bell. When Dean waits a few minutes there, browsing through the pamphlets, and no one comes, he gives in and gives a bell a decisive slap.

There’s a brief silence and then the sound of someone quickly walking overhead somewhere, the clatter of someone walking down a set of stairs that Dean can’t see, all followed by a loud _crack_. There’s a surprised shout and some thumping and then it grows quiet again.

Now Dean’s really concerned. He’s eyeing the front door when a deep, somewhat sheepish voice calls out, “Is someone there? I could, uh…use a little help.”

Dean unshoulders his duffel and walks further down the hall. There are a few rooms off to the left and right that he passes, and then a back staircase set into the wall. It’s rather cramped and dark and he can make out the shape of someone standing there.

“There’s a light switch there at the bottom,” the voice calls, and Dean finds it and flicks it on.

He can’t help but let out a surprised laugh when he sees the situation this guy’s got himself into. Somehow his foot went through one of the middle stairs, leaving him hobbled at an awkward angle, nothing but the thigh of that leg visible. There’s not even a handrail that he could have used to help pull himself up.

“Yeah, I know,” the man says. His face is red. “I must look pretty ridiculous.”

Dean schools his face and comes up the stairs. “No worries. Let’s see if we can’t get you out of here.” The man holds a hand out for Dean to grasp, but there isn’t enough leverage to pull him out. In the end, with a grunt, Dean has to hook his hands under the guy’s armpits and heave him out, hoping that the whole staircase doesn’t collapse when he does. The man stumbles onto the steps next to Dean and then they awkwardly waffle their way back down the stairs, shoulders bumping into each other, before the man gives up and lets Dean walk down in front of him.

Once they’re out in the hallway the man pulls his shirt straight with a frown and a sigh.

“I’m really sorry about that,” he says. “I’m guessing that’s not what you were expecting.” He’s walking over to the desk now. Dean can see that the guy’s in his early to mid-thirties, with mussed-up hair and nice lips. In fact, he thinks—as the man rounds the desk—he has a nice everything. He drops his gaze before the man can catch him looking.

“Didn’t know what to expect, to be honest,” Dean says. “I’ve never stayed at a B&B before.”

The man’s face brightens. “Oh. Well, nothing to compare me to. Excellent.” That surprises a laugh out of Dean. He steps up closer to the desk.

“Uh, just a room for the night. Please. A queen’s fine.”

“Okay,” the man says. He slides some paperwork across the desk to Dean, along with a pen. When Dean’s done he loops a finger through the key ring of one of several keys hanging from a nail behind the desk. “The Birch Room. It’s on the third floor. Can I help you carry up your luggage?”

Dean indicates his duffel. “I travel light.”

“ Breakfast’s at nine tomorrow. I can bring it up to you or you can come down to the dining room for it,” the man says.

“I’ll probably wander down before hitting the road,” Dean says. “Thanks…” His voice lilts up, a question, waiting for the guy’s name. The man is sliding Dean’s papers somewhere and looks up with a caught expression when he finds Dean still lingering there.

“I’m Cas,” he says finally, when he figures out what Dean’s waiting for. “Cas Novak. I own Grace Hill. I usually say that earlier, when I’m not trapped in an unlit safety hazard of a stairwell.”

Dean snags the key from the desk and nods at him. “It’s no worries. I’m Dean.” He sticks around a moment longer, trying to think of something to say, and fails. Eventually he just quirks a smile and says goodnight, heading up the front staircase to the Birch Room.

The digs are nice. Dean wanders around the room once he’s changed out of his jeans. He usually thought of B&Bs as being more fussy. Ruffled coverlets, porcelain cats looking at you from shelves lining every wall. So he likes the simplicity of the heavy, well-made bed frame—he’s guessing it’s birch—and its dark green blankets. There’s a bookshelf on one wall stacked with paperbacks, something for all types—he spots the third Harry Potter and some torrid romance with Fabio on the cover and a Salinger novel.  Also some paintings with incredibly loving depictions of what Dean guesses is the fall tree canopy at Grace Hill. There’s a large window with a bench set into it that he guesses has a pretty beautiful view, although it’s too dark to see now.

It’s all very clean and orderly. When he goes to use the attached bathroom he finds the faucet and handles are easily as old as he is. The toilet’s slow to refill after he flushes. When he comes back out he hears the squeak of someone—he’s guessing Cas—walking up the stairs past the third floor, on to the next. Dean opens the window a crack and climbs into the bed. The mattress is like a cloud beneath him. He ends up falling asleep to the sounds of cicadas out the window and footsteps up above.

**

Dean wakes up in the morning without a crick in his neck for once. Probably because the B&B has actual feather pillows, not the sandbags he’s used to at motels. Then he sits up and gets a look out the window and stills, just looking through to the view before getting up and moving closer. Hills of lush, unbelievably green trees beckon out the window. He watches as a ripple of wind moves down the hills, sending leaves tussling into one another. Now that he’s paying attention, the birdsong is almost ceaseless. Maybe Grace Hill is in the middle of nowhere. But Dean can’t think of any places he’s been recently that could beat that view.

He’s got an early internal alarm clock—it’s just before eight—so he ends up bringing the Salinger book over to the windowseat and reading on the cushion for a solid hour before lethargically getting dressed for breakfast and going down the two flights of stairs. From the hallway he rounds the corner into the dining room just in time to see Cas leaning over a long, rustic table, putting the finishing touches on a breakfast spread over it.  

Cas doubletakes at Dean in the doorway. “Hi,” he says. “Help yourself—the only other houseguest’s left already, and there’s more food than I know what to do with.”

Dean’s stomach lets out a rumble at the smell of bacon. “Awesome,” he says happily. He reaches for a plate. “What about you, you eaten yet?”

“Not  yet,” Cas says. “I’ll get around to it.”

“You should get around to it now,” Dean says. “The food’s still hot.”

“Well,” Cas says. “I’m sure there’s a million things I should be doing.” Considering how late Dean heard him walking around the B&B last night, he isn’t surprised. It’s only nine in the morning and Cas probably has still more to do; even his hair looks harried. Dean probably shouldn’t be keeping him. All the same, though, he can’t help but want to have Cas to himself, even if only for half an hour. He gets the feeling that to have Cas completely undistracted, his attention only focused on thing—preferably him—well, he gets the feeling that would be pretty special.

“No pressure,” Dean says. Cas stands there with a considering expression for another few seconds, hesitating, and then he pulls out the chair across from Dean.

“Why not,” he says. His eyes have friendly crinkles radiating outwards from the corners. Dean smiles back at him.

Dean intends to wow him with his easygoing conversational skills, but that idea sputters to a halt as soon as he takes the first bite out of the warm, honey-drenched biscuit sitting closest to him on the plate. He makes an appreciative noise, eyes big as he chews.

“Wow,” he says. “That’s damn good.”

“Thanks,” Cas says, with a modest shrug of his shoulders. “I try.”

“You’re the cook here, too?”

I’m pretty much everything here,” Cas sighs. “Owner, manager, groundskeeper, cook, accountant, beekeeper, egg collector. I’m sure there’s more.”

“Wow,” Dean says, taking another bite. “That’s a lot to handle yourself.”

“It’s too much to handle by myself,” Cas corrects. “Right now I’m still getting by, but…oh well. At least I’ll have plenty of job experience when the place gets foreclosed on.” He grimaces. “Sorry. That was a joke. That was actually a good example why I don’t tell jokes.”

“Has it always been just you?”

“Not at all,” Cas says. “This was actually my family home. I was one of five. College called me away in my twenties, but after my parents died the house was split between us. So we made the crazy decision to make it into a B&B. It worked well for a few years. I was just supposed to be the bookkeeper, really.  Hael was the one with the artistic eye, the flair for decorating—she’d gone to art school. Anna had been a pastry chef before coming back. Luke up and Michael kept up the grounds and the house and the orchard when they weren’t trying to kill each other.”

“The orchard?” Dean repeats.

Cas nods. “Got a few acres. Also my parents’.  I have to pay people to tend to it now, of course. I don’t have nearly the time.”

“So what happened? Family squabbles?”Dean asks, folding a slice of bacon into his mouth. He realizes the question might be indelicate. “I mean, you don’t have to—”

“It’s okay,” Cas says. “After we lost Anna, things just kind of…fell apart. I don’t blame anyone. Hael moved to Arizona with her husband. She likes to paint the Grand Canyon now.” Dean realizes the paintings up in his room here might be Cas’s sister’s. “Luke left and then Michael too. And, well, with that highway being built to bypass Grace Hill, guests have been less and less.” He looks around the room. “Still got a few regulars. Mrs. Avery—she left this morning—she’ll take a room for a weekend every month. It feels more like a favor at this point. Drop-ins, like you. But the house is empty more than not.”

“Sounds lonely.”

“It is,” Cas says. “But also not. Guests or no guests, every day I’m just trying to stay afloat.” His fingers drum on the table as he says it, like he suddenly just remembered his laundry list of tasks. Dean casts around for a way to keep him in the dining room with him, forestall Cas’s next comment, which will probably be a gentle excuse to get up and leave Dean to finish his breakfast in peace.

“You’re obviously talented at what you do. For a guy who was supposed to be behind the scenes balancing books, you make a pretty damn good chef,” Dean says, gesturing over the breakfast fare, most of which is half-eaten or gone, thanks to Dean’s stomach.  “That’s pretty impressive.”

Cas gives him a soft smile. “I do appreciate it. But you should have seen Anna. Hand pies with fruit straight from the orchards. Sticky buns, danishes. I just try to follow her recipes. And you’re nicely overlooking my ineptitude in many other aspects of running a B&B.”

Dean eyebrow cocks up. “Ineptitude?”

“You haven’t forgotten the stairs yesterday already, have you?” Cas says. “I barely have the time or money—or, to be honest, the ability—to fix a squeaky faucet, let alone the hundreds of other updates this house needs. And as soon as one thing’s fixed, another five things fall apart on me.” Cas sighs and stands up. “I’m sorry, Dean, that’s enough about me. I’m sure there are plenty of things I need to be doing.”

“It’s okay—” Dean says.

“No, it’s really not,” Cas says firmly. “You’re kind to listen to me. I should have told you earlier—check-out’s whenever. Obviously there’s no rush to get your room turned over. Feel free to wander the grounds. There’s the orchards, like I said, and a pond west of the house.”

“Yeah, sounds good,” Dean says. Cas sweeps out of the room. Sitting alone in the quiet, it doesn’t take very long for Dean to finish up and leave by the same door Cas did. He briefly thinks about gathering up his duffel and hitting the road, but then he passes an open window and smells the outside and decides he’s really in no rush. The grounds are lovely, slightly hilly, with an appealing wildness. He passes an old well with ivy clambered over it, and a path green with moss. The pond Cas spoke of is ringed with algae and lilies, although Dean’s more taken by a decrepit gazebo built at the water’s edge. His hands itch to test the wood for rot, but he decides against it, ambling up a path that skirts the pond and heads north.

He wanders up and down the aisles of Grace Hill’s orchard, which boasts trees heavy with apples—Honeycrisps, Paula Reds, along with cherry and apricot trees. Some of the fruits have fallen into the grass, rotting, sending up a sickly-sweet smell. Back beyond the orchards is a smell red barn which must also belong to Cas—faded white paint over the door spells out G AC  ILL. Dean supposes it’s for the harvest. He finds himself imagining the harvest as he returns back to the house—really, trying to envision the fall here, the lovely colors of the leaves that Hael’s paintings in his room could only hint at. He finds himself wondering if Grace Hill will still be operating by the fall and then brushes aside the thought, feeling guilty.

Heading back to the B&B in the full light, he can see what Cas means about the house needing upkeep. It’s in desperate need of a coat of paint, and he can see dark, greenish spots beneath the eaves—telltale signs, to him at least, that the gutters are probably clogged if not in disrepair. New shingles on the roof definitely wouldn’t hurt. And—remembering the way the wood had creaked so alarmingly beneath his feet the night before—the porch planks would probably need to be torn up to make way for new ones. For someone like Cas, strapped for money, you would have to hope he was good with his hands.

He finds Cas on the second floor, in the room Mrs. Avery must have stayed in the night before. He’s stripping the sheets off the bed, throwing them into a hamper, but he stops when he sees Dean.

“I hope you enjoyed your walk,” he says. By way of explanation, he adds, “I saw you from the window.”

“It’s stunning here,” Dean says. “It’s really something special.”

“Thanks,” Cas murmurs. And then, “Are you checking out now, then? Just give me a second, and I can—”

“This is just a thought I had,” Dean says. He doesn’t know why he’s so nervous; he’s made these kinds of pitches a thousand times. Unadorned confidence can usually sell itself. And sure, the project’s bigger—okay, a _lot_ bigger—than something he’d normally take on. But that’s why he’s going to keep it simple, direct, and limited. Maybe he can’t restore the B &B to its previous glory, when Cas had four siblings to help, but—“I’m willing to stay for a couple more days and work on some things around the house and grounds that you need done. ‘s long as room and any materials I’d have to buy are covered, of course. It’s kinda what I do—plumbing, electricity, drywall, roofing, you name it. I’m a handyman.”

“Oh,” Cas says.

“If you want to pass, it doesn’t hurt me none. But it sounds like you’ve got a lot on your plate and, well, there’s nothing on mine.”

“No, it’s not that—I. I’m really not sure you know what you’re getting into.” Dean’s ready to draw himself up, feeling a little affronted, and Cas holds his hands up to stall him. “The list of things you could do for me is essentially never-ending. I don’t want you to think to start thinking that you have to see it all the way through, or anything. Because if you’re the kind of man who’s not satisfied until the job’s done—”

“Just ‘til Friday. Just for a few days,” Dean says again, in this terrible foolhardy tone, because he doesn’t want Cas to think it’s too big of a favor. He already can tell Cas isn’t the kind of person to want or rely on help. “It’s just an idea.”

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas says. It’s a simple phrase, really, but said so softly, with such weight, Dean knows the kind of emotion Cas is putting behind the words. Dean can feel a flush climbing up his neck.

“it’s nothing, really.” He gestures vaguely outside. “If you want me to, then, I have all my tools in the car—”

“Yes, okay,” Cas says. “I was just going to—a list. I have a list somewhere. Unless you have an idea where to start?”

Dean comes forward and takes the hamper from Cas. Cas lets him do it, eyes catching and holding on Dean’s as his hands falls empty to his side. It is very nice, Dean decides, when Cas’s attention is not pulled in several directions at once. He can tell he has it now by the steadiness of Cas’s gaze, falling heavy on Dean like a stone through water. It makes a curl of anticipation tighten in Dean’s stomach.  “Let’s talk about it,” Dean says. “I have a few ideas.”

**

_Clean out gutters_

_Fix stair(s?)  on back staircase_

_Shingle roof_

_New fixtures in Sugar Maple bathroom_

_Fix lock—SM bathroom_

**

It starts a bit awkwardly, of course. The only lined paper—let alone blank paper, besides Cas’s Post-It notes—they can find is a thick notepad he digs up from his desk drawer. He thinks it’s from his mother’s days running the B&B. It’s garish yellow and on the top, in a curliecue script, it says, _Honey-Do List_. Apparently that’s where she’d write down all the stuff Cas’s father had to do.

When Cas reads it, with Dean at his shoulder, he flushes red up to his hairline. “Oh,” he says. “That’s embarrassing. On second thought—”

“No, this works,” Dean says, even though he despises it on principle alone. But he doesn’t want to make Cas have any second thoughts.  He takes the notepad and scrabbles a pen from the cup on Cas’s desk and sits there with it poised over the paper. “What’ll be first?”

Cas looks immensely gratified by the big projects Dean said he could knock out over the next few days. In fact, the only suggestions he had made were the ones pertaining to the Sugar Maple room, the only one he let out regularly.

“That’ the room Mrs. Avery always asks for,” he tells Dean. “I’ve tried to get her to take a different one. The bathroom lock always sticks and I end up having to force the door open so she isn’t stuck in there. I tried to oil the lock. There’s only so much I can do.”

“It’s no worries,” Dean says, his pen scratching out this newest request. “That won’t take me long at all.”

“Great,” Cas says. He takes out his phone and checks something before sliding it back into his pocket. “I need to make some calls. And I’ll also be leaving to visit Sweetwater Farms down the road at some point—they’re the ones I get all my vegetables from. Um, keys.” He walks down the hall and searches around the front desk before hunting down what he was looking for. “This big one’s for the front door. All the other ones are labeled according to which room they access. Um, the ladder’s in the basement. If a guest comes while I’m out—which will almost definitely not happen—you can tell them there’s sweet tea in the parlor, where they can wait for me to come back.” Dean takes the keys from Cas’s hands, finally stopping the slew of words. “Any questions?” Cas asks.

Dean sorts through the key ring and holds up a small, unmarked key. “One. What does this go to?”

Cas squints at it for a moment and then smiles. “Oh. I forgot about that. It’s to the golf cart. That was Luke’s idea.”

“The golf cart?”

“To get around the grounds. It has a little truckbed in the back, in case you need to haul anything. You may end up using it.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Dean says. Maybe not. He flips the key ring around his knuckles; the keys make a jangling sound. “All right. Guess I’m going to get started.”

Cas hand comes, warm, around his shoulder, giving him a quick squeeze. “Thanks again, Dean. I’ll be in the office if you need anything.”

In a matter of seconds, Dean’s alone in the quiet of the front hallway. He looks around—the dust motes sliding in and out of the chinks of light coming in through the window, the slightly crooked hang of a painting on the wall. So he’s really doing this, then. He reaches out and straightens the picture before throwing open the basement door and tromping down the stairs for the ladder.

It’s not until after he’s leaned the ladder up against the south wall, after he’s been monkeying around the roof checking out the state of the shingles, that his phone begins to ring in his back pocket. When he fishes it out, he sees he has a FaceTime call from Sammy.

“Wow,” Sam says. “I don’t know where you are, but I know I want to be wherever you are.”

Dean pans the camera smugly around so Sam can get a 360 degree of his view from the roof. “Take a guess. There’s a one-in-forty-eight chance you’ll get it right.”

Sam leans in so close to the camera that all he can see is his brother’s eyeball. “Shit, I don’t know. West Virginia?”

“Vermont,” Dean says. “It’s this cool old B&B. I’m doing some renos on it over the next few days.”

“Vermont,” Sam repeats. “I’ve never been. If you stick around long enough, maybe it’s time for me to take a vacation.”

“Just a few days,” Dean says again, briskly. “Sorry. And we’ve talked about this. Don’t try to come to me, all right, I’ll make it out to California eventually.”

“That’s what you’ve been saying for the last year and a half,” Sam says. “And if you go any further East you’ll be in the ocean.”

“Oh no,” Dean says, who knows what’s coming. “Sam, I swear, don’t you dare—”

It’s too late. Even Dean’s small screen can’t dilute the full, unwavering power of Sam’s best little brother weapon—the sad, concerned face, complete with hangdog eyes. “I just want to see you, man. Jess and I are trying to plan the wedding, we’re gonna need to move into a new place. These are things I want to share with you.”

“I know. I’ll make it out there, I promise. You gotta trust me on this.”

“Okay,” Sam sighs. “Well don’t break your neck up there, all right? Talking on the phone right now is like an accident waiting to happen.”

Dean rolls his eyes. Count on his lawyer brother to take that train of thought. “I’m bein’ careful,” he says. Then he abruptly drops his phone and tosses it hand from hand. “Hey—whoa—uh-oh—”

He’s grinning wide when he brings the phone back up to his face.

“You done yet, asshole?” Sam says. “Anyways, Jess sends her love. Talk to you in a few days, okay?”

“Okay,” Dean says. “Talk soon.”

He’s still smiling to himself when he tucks the phone back into his pocket and surveys the roof with a critical eye. It’s hot up here, with the sun beating down on him, although the breeze from the trees is wicking the sweat off the back of his neck, which feels nice. It gives him a good idea of what it’ll feel like when he’ll be up here tomorrow to re-shingle the roof. He nudges a few old shingles with the toe of his boot and watches them slide off over the gutter and drop off the house. Then, with one last look around, he walks to the ladder and climbs down.

**

He ends up driving into town.

“Town” being a relative phrase, since he realizes Grace Hill isn’t exactly a bustling metropolis. Still, he’s able to buy the basics he needs for the roofing and staircase and bathroom fixtures at a local hardware store. After jigsaw-puzzling his purchases into the Impala, he takes the windy roads back to the B&B.

Dean likes his job. He does not qualify this statement with a: _I like my job, but…_ (He has known many people who do this.) He is self-employed. His form of transportation is the car he’s essentially rebuilt from the tires up. And whereas Sam was always the book-smart one, practically reading his textbooks for pleasure, Dean was always skilled with his hands. From a young age he was driving his mom crazy with his penchant to take apart radios to see how they work, or helping Uncle Bobby build and stain bookshelves for his office library. He never feels more at home than when there’s some problem that can only be solved with ingenuity and the help of a hammer, saw, or wire-cutter.

Dean realizes that maybe this makes him somewhat unorthodox. His job can be packed away into car; he never knows when or where his next job comes. But he knows the strangest part, to other people, is the pay. He makes enough to survive, to put gas in the tank and food in his belly until the next stop comes along. But he’s never been concerned about building up a nest egg, financial security. He just wants to do what he loves. When he turns onto the gravel road and comes around the sweeping edge of the drive that leads up to the B&B, he starts whistling. Even with the handiwork needed, Grace Hill is a damn good sight on the eyes. As for Dean, he’s at home whenever he’s doing what he loves. For now, then, he thinks—parking, unloading his purchases—for now, Grace Hill must be home.

**

Dean’s up in the Sugar Maple bathroom when he hears the front door open and close, the sound of Cas sighing as he sorts through mail.

“Hey, Cas?” He calls from the top of the stairs. “Mind coming up for a sec? I wanted to show you something.”

Cas obliging joins him, giving him a slightly mystified look as Dean beckons him into the bathroom. Once there, he turns around in a circle, taking in the new shower and sink faucets and handles. “These look great, Dean,” he says. “Finally, this bathroom seems halfway modern.”

Dean coasts on Cas’s compliments for a moment, and then gets down to business. “This is the bathroom that needed its lock repaired, right?” Cas nods, and watches as Dean steps out of the room and shuts the door.

“All right, you’re Mrs. Avery. Lock me out,” Dean says, and hears Cas slide the bolt. “Okay, now unlock it.” The bolt slides the other way, and Dean turns the handle and opens the door. Cas is standing right there, filling up the doorway.

“I’m glad it’s working now,” he says. “I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve had to come up here and save Mrs. Avery.”

“Right,” Dean says. “Thing is, this is the original lock.”

“What?” Cas asks, after a moment.

“I never changed the lock,” Dean says. “Didn’t need to.”

A small divot grows between Cas’s eyebrows. “But that can’t be right. Mrs. Avery has gotten stuck in here multiple times—”

“And what did Mrs. Avery do when you came up to help her?” Dean asks, leaning against the doorframe.

“She’s normally very grateful,” Cas says slowly. “After being stuck so long. She’ll pull me into a hug and call me her white knight and ask with me to sit with her a while and—oh.” He stares at Dean, aghast. “The lock was never broken, was it.”

Dean’s biting back a smile as he slowly shakes his head no. “Did you never think to check for yourself, or—”

“I had no reason to think she was lying,” Cas says. “And if she was telling the truth, I didn’t want to lock _myself_ in here—God knows when someone would realize I’d gone missing—” He runs a hand through his hair, tufting it up. His face wavers between disbelief and amusement, and then a grin grows across his lips, and his nose crinkles, and he starts laughing. And Dean, standing in the doorway—Dean can only stare, feeling a smile spread across his face, too. It’s hard not to when Cas is giggling like that.

Finally Cas gathers himself, moving past Dean and back into the room. “Well,” he says ruefully. “At least we can cross that one off your list, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Dean says. Cas is still smiling around the eyes. Dean suddenly wishes his list was a hell of a lot longer.

There is nothing more for Dean to do now that the daylight’s fading away. Instead, he goes down to the kitchen with Cas and watches while Cas prepares them sandwiches. They’re nothing special, Cas insists, and by doing so refuses to let Dean help him. So instead Dean leans against the counter and watches.

“So I never asked,” Dean says. “What did you other two brothers end up doing? Michael and Luke?”

“Michael’s part of a security firm in New York now. And Luke’s in DC, working on political campaigns. We’ve kind of spread all over the map.”

“Yeah? They ever visit?”

“Not often,” Cas says. His hands slow. “We get together yearly. For Anna. And, well, I’ve been promising to get out to visit them.”

“You’ve been busy,” Dean says. “It’s understandable.”

“Yeah,” Cas says. He sounds distracted. He seems to come back to himself after a moment, his movements gaining vigor. “What about you? Any siblings?”

“One. Sam. Lawyer extraordinaire, practically raised the kid myself. He lives in California now.” He watches Cas open a cabinet, rummaging around. “He’s getting married soon, actually. Just proposed to her, and they want a short engagement.”

“That’s great,” Cas says. “You’ve met her?”

“Oh, yeah, a few times. She’s really good for him. And now I guess I’m gaining a sister.”

Cas turns, having put their dinners on two plates. “Sisters are nice,” he says, smiling faintly.

They eat at the long, wide table, empty but for the two of them. Again, despite the simplicity of the meal, Dean marvels at the ingredients—all local, Cas assures him, from the maple syrup to the meat and dairy products, and it’s clearly a point of pride. He Other than that, they are silent, but that’s okay, too. The window is open, and the breeze coming in smells sweetly of the outside.

Afterwards they walk upstairs together. Cas stops at the third story landing with Dean, seeing him off into his room. It reminds Dean of how he’d walk dates up to their porches after a night out, and he would almost feel awkward about it, if it wasn’t for Cas’s earnestness. Cas even lingers in the doorway, looking around the Birch Room with fondness.

“This was my room, growing up,” he says. “Obviously so much has changed since then; I forget sometimes. It always had my favorite view.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, looking back into the room. “That window seat is none other. Read about fifty pages of Salinger there this morning.” Had it really only been this morning? It seemed years away. It was a different pace of life, then, with different cares.

“Salinger’s one of my favorites,” Cas enthuses. “And Marquez and Atwood and Vonnegut—”

“Vonnegut,” Dean says. “Shit, man, why don’t I have any of that on my bookshelf? It’s been years.”

“I have a couple upstairs,” Cas says, by which he means—Dean realizes—his own room. “I’ll loan them to you.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Being able to sit at that window, reading Vonnegut, is something you should do while you’re here,” Cas says, like his mind is made up.

“Well, okay,” Dean finally says. “Thanks, Cas.”

After Cas leaves and Dean strips down to his boxers, he finds himself wandering around the room, not quite ready to go to bed just yet. He’s used to longer nights than this on the road. At this time, he’d still be cruising down some highway, taillights washing out face, miles still to go. He hears the sounds of Cas walking around upstairs. It’s strangely comforting.

He sits at the window again and pages through some Salinger. Only twenty pages farther in, he starts feeling the familiar tug at his eyelids. He dog-ears his page and, standing up, sees something. There, in the  paint just beneath the window-ledge, very faint, childish scratches spelling out, _CN._ It makes him smile, running his finger over the lettering, before getting up to turn out the light.

**

_~~Clean out gutters~~ _

_~~Fix stair(s?)  on back staircase~~ _

_Shingle roof_

_~~New fixtures in Sugar Maple bathroom~~ _

_~~Fix lock—SM bathroom~~ _

_Patch hole in drywall—third floor_

_Fix 2 loose shutters (front of house)_

**

For three days Dean is the only guest in the house. It is almost unnerving, how fast he falls into this routine with Cas. That first morning, Dean had opened the bedroom door to find a neat stack of broken-spined Vonneguts sitting on the floor directly on front of him. Afterwards, breakfast with Cas, every morning, followed by them going their separate ways to tackle their respective tasks. Dean sets up a workspace in the  basement for his supplies, and is told to help himself to the kitchen  pantry, too, for lunch. No need to stand on ceremony. He might meet Cas briefly as they pass on the main stairs, or might hear him talking on the phone when he passes the office doorway. Otherwise they tend not to see each other again until dinner, when Cas roots through the kitchen’s fresh produce and leftovers and somehow concocts the best home meals Dean’s had in ages.

Dean’s list gets added to. Twice  Cas has asked in a half-apologetic, considering way, if Dean thinks he has the time—? Dean has the time. Or, at least, he’s making himself have the time. He even whips out Cas’s mother’s honey-do list right there, just to show his willingness (and to see Cas turn a little pink again). The added tasks are small chores, little else. Otherwise they’ll talk about their families, about Cas’s college years, about Dean’s time on the road. Afterwards Cas will walk him to the Birch Room, linger at his door, his hands fidgeting uncharacteristically in his pockets, his eyes over Dean’s shoulder as he says goodnight.

The fourth morning, Dean’s original departure date, looms large. He ends up padding down to breakfast yawning, barefoot, still slightly sore from a muggy afternoon bent over the gutters on the roof. When he comes into the dining room Cas looks at him, looks past him, into the hallway. Maybe he’s looking for Dean’s departure, which is as sure a sign of his impending check-out  as anything. When he sees nothing, he heaps an extra large helping of home fries onto Dean’s plate and they pass that half hour in companionable silence.

Since he plans to finally tackle the roof, he finally puts on his full handyman uniform, a scuffed toolbelt, heavy with equipment, that hangs low around his waist. When he jogs down the front staircase with it looped around his hips, jangling as he goes, Cas looks up from the desk there and stares as Dean gives him a quick smile before going out the door.

Dean spends the morning stripping off the old shingles, revealing the foundation planks beneath. The sun burns off the clouds as he sends the shingles Frisbeeing off the roof and into the lawn; he’ll collect them later. His shirt is patchy with sweat by the time he looks up, wiping his wrist across his forehead, and sees a van, still small as a beetle, turning onto  Grace Hill’s gravel road. Five minutes later, the van’s parked in front of the B&B and, although Dean can’t see them from his position on the roof, he can hear them. Sounds like at least two kids, high-voiced and giddy, with their parents. There’s the sound of roller bags bumping over gravel and the front door slamming shut. When Dean climbs down for lunch and comes into the front hallway, he can hear pounding footsteps coming from the ceiling, above his head. Cas is standing at the desk, inking something into a binder book.

“Family of five,” he says, answering Dean’s unasked question. “Staying for two nights.”

“Seems like a lot of…energy,” Dean says, right as there’s a loud thump upstairs and one of the kids starts screaming bloody murder.

“Might be worth getting the second golf cart out,” Cas muses. “Long as they don’t run themselves into a tree, it seems like something that could keep them—”

“Outside,” Dean supplies.

“Occupied,” Cas says at the same time, and they grin at each other, conspiratorially.

Dean spends the afternoon punching in new shingles with a nail gun. At one point he hears the ladder shaking, swaying against the roof, and he peers down to see one of the kids trying to monkey up to him. Luckily the father comes out and plucks the kid off the rung, sending him caroming off into a different direction. It reminds Dean of growing up with Sam, following him around the house and trying to make sure that he didn’t stick his gummy fingers into sockets or trip down the stairs. He sits on the edge of the roof, legs dangling over, and watches as Cas leads the family out further along the lawn, his hands gesturing expansively to the darkly shimmering pond and the orchards beyond. Not long after the family sets off as a unit, enthusiastic, with baskets slung over their arms that Cas must’ve given them for an apple-picking excursion. As Cas turns back to the house, Dean waves, but Cas doesn’t see him.

Dean creeps into the house when the light is slanting low through the west-facing windows,  going straight upstairs to turn the creaking faucets to cold water. He rinses off and dresses again and goes downstairs. He hears Cas explaining that prime picking season is late summer. Cas cuts off when Dean rounds the corner.

“This is Dean. He’s, uh, the handyman here,” Cas says. Introductions are made. The Barber family, from Indiana, is sunburned and hungry. They make small talk with Dean while Cas darts back into the kitchen.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” one of the children says abruptly, standing up.

“Oh, watch out,” Cas says, coming from the kitchen with wet hands, wringing them dry in a towel. “The downstairs bathroom—”

“Toilet’s a bit touchy,” Dean says simultaneously. “Make sure you flush twice.”

“You hear that?” the mother calls after her child. They don’t seem to notice, as Dean does, the way Cas is looking at Dean, faint spots of color rising in his cheeks. Dean suddenly feels shy, even slightly embarrassed. Why is he doing Cas’s job for him? Why is he acting like he knows this house just as well?

“I need to—” Cas says. “Upstairs. Excuse me.”

He puts the hand towel down gently on the side table and goes up the back staircase. After a moment of indecision, Dean follows. The back staircase is still just as slender and dark as it was the first time he met Cas here, although at least this time, thanks to Dean’s handiwork, the stairs will be holding up just fine. Cas is standing on the third stair, just standing, like he was waiting for something, and Dean isn’t sure for what until Cas’s hands hook into the collar of his shirt and pull him up. Cas presses him back into the wall and fits his lips over Dean’s and they kiss there, close and muffled, hands twisting in each other’s shirts, until there’s the telltale two flushes from the toilet down the hall. Cas pulls away.

“Have to finish dinner,” he says.

“Okay,” Dean says.

“I’ll see you down there,” he says.

“Yep,” Dean says. He’s still slightly breathless. When Cas slides past him and back through the hallway, Dean stays there for a minute. His head feels buzzy, his lips wet. He waits for his breath to fall back to normal and then retraces his steps to the kitchen. All during dinner, as the children are clamoring and kicking each other under the table, as the parents make conversation, he and Cas meet eyes and look away. Dean feels lit from within, as if with a small flame.

Cas goes out with the family after dinner to scrounge up some mason jars from the shed—the kids want to catch fireflies. Dean watches from the window for a while and, when there’s no sign Cas will return, goes upstairs and brushes his teeth, getting ready for bed. His phone vibrates with a call from Sam.  Dean leans back against the bed and answers.

“Nice digs,” Sam says, when the call connects. Dean, magnanimous, pans the screen around the room, letting Sam see Hael’s paintings on the wall, the twilit view from the window. “Are you still at the same B&B?”

“Yep,” Dean says. “Not for too much longer, probably. Still fixing up some odds and ends.”

“Nice,” Sam says, offhandedly, he’s already plowing ahead to the reason he called. “This wedding business is ridiculous. Jess and I can’t find a venue to book closer than four months out. You know I don’t care about size, since we really have no one to invite, but with how big her extended family is, we don’t really have a lot of options.” He sighs. “It’s kinda taken the wind out of our sails. We’ll be lucky if we get married before Christmas.”

“Sorry, Sammy,” Dean says. “Maybe something will work out your way. Bride gets cold feet, wedding gets called off—you might get a venue after all.”

“That’s positive thinking,” Sam says. Dean’s distracted by a light tap on the door.

“Gotta run,” he says. “Let me know if anything changes. Night.”

He puts his phone on the side table and cracks open the door, then, upon seeing who it is, cracks it open still further.

“Hi,” Cas says.

“Hey,” Dean says.

“I just wanted to say goodnight,” Cas offers.

“Okay,” Dean says, who’s filled with the painful idea that he should be doing something else, more encouraging, but any other thoughts fall heavy as cement. He stares at Cas, willing him to do something.

“Okay,” Cas says. “So, goodnight.” After a moment of indecision he leans in and kisses Dean, soft, along the bow of his lip. He pulls back and looks at Dean and then comes forward again, one hand leaned against the doorframe, the other one reaching forward to twine with Dean’s fingers. They hold hands against Dean’s thigh as Cas gives him another light kiss, nose bumping against Dean’s cheek. Somewhere in the house there’s a scream of laughter, then a door goes flying open as at least two of the kids bound out of it and go racing down the stairs. The floor vibrates with their footsteps. Dean suddenly wishes the place was just to the two of them again.

Cas drops his hand and stops back. His lips are red. Dean stares at them.

“See you tomorrow,” he says.

As Dean plumps his pillow, he knows one thing for sure. He is definitely not leaving tomorrow.

**

By the end of the second day of the Barber’s visit, Dean feels convinced that the Barber family from Indiana was custom-made in Hell and sent especially for Dean. Otherwise what else would explain the family’s irritating, loud, intrusive presence? Despite Dean’s attempt to wake early so he could sneak down to the kitchen and help—or, at least, watch—Cas make breakfast, he  finds Mr. Barber sitting in the dining room paging through a newspaper as soon as he rounds the corner. Rather than talking to Cas, he is pulled into a meandering conversation about the state of the housing market. Dean feels like he’s in an Austen novel by lunchtime, what with him and Cas able to do little else than look at each from across the room, dancing on the edge of things, forever chaperoned by the howling mob of children and their parents. He spends the afternoon back on the roof, line by line of shingles, cognizant of the freckles, like spring wildflowers, blooming across his sun-touched skin.

“You’re real red,” one of the boys says at the dinner table, studying Dean’s slight sunburn. “Like a tomato.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Dean says.

“ _Real_ red,” the other girl repeats.

By evening, Dean feels like he’s only caught snatches of Cas—a smile here, a greeting there. He goes to bed on edge, for once uncharmed by the lilt of wind coming through the window, the bounty of trees. He lays awake a long time, waiting for a light tap on the door, and falls asleep still waiting for it.

When Dean wakes in the morning he chooses to forego breakfast, instead sitting at the window seat, paging through the last of a Vonnegut Cas loaned him. He can hear the sounds of the Barbers going to eat, coming back up again, then the sounds of them dragging them bags down the staircase. The front door opens and closes a few times. Cas’s voice enters the mix, thanking his guests, wishing them safe travels. He hears the van crunch away on the gravel.

Dean pokes around on the main floor—the desk area, Cas’s office, the kitchen—but Cas is nowhere to be found. Eventually he tracks him down outside, peering into the henhouse. Dean doesn’t know what he’s looking at until he draws closer and sees the tufts of feathers clumped on the floor there. Cas must sense him behind him, because he speaks without turning around.

“I saw this first thing this morning, when I went out for eggs, but I didn’t want to excite their kids,” he says. “Maybe I should have said something. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was one of them who left the door unlatched.”

He sighs and tips his head back and wryly looks over dusty barbed wire, the old planks. “Then again, considering the state of this thing, it might not have had anything to do with them whatsoever.”

“What do you think?” Dean says, coming to his shoulder. There’s a spot of dark blood in the dirt inside the henhouse, and the remaining chickens are pressed into a corner, clucking nervously amongst themselves. “A fox get in?”

“I don’t know,” Cas says morosely. “It doesn’t matter. Some days I feel like I kill everything I touch.”

Dean waits out a short silence. “Well that’s a bit melodramatic, don’t you think?”

That startles a reluctant laugh out of Cas. “Yeah, maybe.”

Dean shifts, lightly touches Cas’s shoulder. “I’ll add it to my list.”

Cas half-turns his head, catches Dean’s eye. “Are you sure you have the time?”

“I have the time,” Dean assures him.

**

_~~Clean out gutters~~ _

_~~Fix stair(s?)  on back staircase~~ _

_~~Shingle roof~~ _

_~~New fixtures in Sugar Maple bathroom~~ _

_~~Fix lock—SM bathroom~~ _

_Patch hole in drywall—third floor_

_~~Fix 2 loose shutters (front of house)~~ _

_Fix henhouse door_

_Fix toilet—first floor_

_Sticky ignition—second golf cart_

**

Dean and Cas fall back into a guestless groove. On the one hand, Dean knows that this is bad for Cas’s business. Cas needs visitors in order to keep Grace Hill in business. On the one hand, it shouldn’t really matter. Despite his attraction to Cas, despite the softness of his lips, and the comfort of his hand in Dean’s, Cas is not promising anything, and Dean is not asking for it. Dean is leaving as soon as he finishes Cas’s list.

The problem, of course, is that the list continues to grow. Cas was never exaggerating about the sheer amount of work the B&B needs, especially in regards to handiwork around the house and grounds. If Dean lets it, the list will never end. There will always be more things that will need to be patched, mended, hammered, fused, oiled.

On the one hand, Cas tells Dean over breakfast that he’d like him to come check out his bedroom fan, which is rattling loudly whenever he turns it on. He wonders if Dean would have time to look into it today.

“I can look at it right now,” Dean tells him. So Cas leads him up to the fourth floor, which Dean’s never been to, since the whole floor is essentially the master bedroom. There are wide, long windows there, east-facing, and between them bookshelves set into the wall. Tattered books are thrust into the shelves every which way, however they can fit. There’s a desk covered over in paperwork and a bed big as a boat, unmade, the pillowy white comforter bunched at the foot of the bed.

Dean hadn’t accounted for how high-ceilinged the room was, so he feel s pretty silly standing there in his heavy, clanking toolbelt with the fan ten feet overhead and no way to reach out. Cas stands silently to the side and watches as Dean flicks the switch for the fan, listening for a rattle.

“Screws might be loose,” he finally says. “I can come back up with a ladder later and—”

Cas’s hand slides over his shoulder and then down over his chest as he comes in for a kiss. Dean falls pliant in his arms, feeling Cas’s hands settle at his waist, feeling over the bulk of the tool belt before he undoes the buckle and it falls with a muted thump to the carpet. Cas leads Dean to the bed, and they drape haphazardly over it, their feet tangling in the bunched sheets. Cas wriggles out of his shirt and pants, revealing himself limber and loose-limbed and completely unselfconscious. He smiles as Dean sits up over him to undo his belt.

The room is cool and soft with sunlight and Cas is there, naked and sighing beneath him in the white sheets. For a long time they kiss, Dean’s thigh riding between Cas’s, their fingers slipping over the knobs and ridges of each other’s skin.

“Come here, come here,” Dean croons, pulling him closer, slotting their bodies closer together. His cock rides hard and urgent between them, along Cas’s.

“In the bedside drawer,” Cas says, gesturing vaguely. So Dean retrieves the lube and condoms and spends his sweet time opening Cas on his fingers, watching a flush works its way down Cas’s body. Then he slicks the condom on and lifts Cas’s knees around his hips and enters him sweet as the sounds Cas makes. Dean slips his forearm under Cas’s head, pillowing him there, their foreheads touching, as his hips work harder, lifting Cas’s lower body off the bed. Cas’s head tosses back and forth on his arm. His mouth finds the tight muscle of Dean’s bicep, the constellation of freckles new on his skin. His teeth gently scrape over them, not enough to sting, enough to raise red.

“God,” Dean says. He turns his head into the warm curve of Cas’s neck. Each thrust he finds Cas anew, pushes them further up the bed, seals them up tight in their pleasure. They do not need to be quiet. The bed creaks beneath them, the headboard insistent against the wall. Cas’s knuckles dig into Dean’s stomach as he works a hand between them and jacks himself off, his hand quick and furious in its movements, coming with a cry. He works himself over a few more times, more leisurely now, panting as Dean presses into him and groans long and finally stills.

Cas murmurs something and skims his palms down Dean’s back. His hair is sweaty where his head is propped up on Dean’s arm. Dean lowers him fully to the bed and pulls out, pressing kisses down his jawline as he does.

God knows Cas has a lot to do. That Dean has a list of things he needs to do, too. On the other hand, though, having the house to themselves certainly has its benefits. Covered in nothing but a blanket of sunlight, they sleep on Cas’s wide soft bed, and wake hungry again for each other hours later.

**

The next two weeks finds Dean precariously perched on a ladder on the side of the house, in the tool shed, in the basement, in the hallways—wherever Cas needs him. In that span of time, they have more sets of guests: one, a surly businessman, who got turned around on the detour through the back roads much like Dean had. He left before breakfast the morning. The other, an elderly couple, charmed by the place, asking Cas questions about its history and taking pictures on their disposable cameras of absolutely everything, even Dean. They stay for three days and in that time Dean tackles some projects in the barn past the orchard, just because he doesn’t think any old fogies with bad hips can make it back there to ask him to say cheese. Cas does find him there, carrying a lunch pail he made up for Dean. He has an exasperated expression on his face.

“I feel like a 1950s housewife,” he says, as Dean roots through the pail’s contents. Dean wheedles his fingers through a belt loop on the back of  Cas’s jeans and pulls him in for a kiss.

“Thanks, Betty,” he says, and Cas laughs and pushes him away.

The guest aren’t all bad. If anything, they help retain the status quo. They’re a helpful reminder that Dean does not, in fact, live here with Cas, operating a B&B. Despite the fact Dean hasn’t slept in the Birch Room in two weeks—Cas’s bed is wider, softer, with the added benefit of Cas himself—and despite the fact Dean’s gotten into a habit of reading propped up against the pillows there while Cas crunches some numbers in ledges at his desk. He’s talked to Sam twice more in these two weeks; with the knowledge that a wedding is impending—two months, maybe three, given a venue is found—Sam is impatient to hear when Dean will be back.

“I gotta have someone in my corner here,” Sam grouses. “There’s just too many voices coming out of Jess’s camp. Her mother wants the wedding to be alcohol-free. Her uncles are threatening to not attend if that’s the case. We finally found a venue that’s, like, two  hours away with some openings in October. But one of Jess’s sisters can’t make it if it’s the first weekend of the month, and the other brother can’t make it the second. I just want to sit them all down and remind them that the wedding isn’t to make _them_ happy. It’s not about them at all.”

“Soon,” Dean says. “Absolutely soon. Seriously. If I need to tear someone a new one once I get there, you just need to tell me when and are.”

It’s clear Cas is aware of Dean’s eventual departure,  too.  He walks into Cas’s office one day to find Cas poring over a list that looks an awful lot like the one he and Dean drew up together.

“You been holding out on me?” Dean says, a little stung. He considers himself a consummate professional. Cas shouldn’t have to hire any outside help if Dean’s here and can do it himself.

“Not at all,” Cas says lightly. He turns the paper so Dean can read it. A new coat of paint for the house’s exterior, rebuild the gazebo, knock out the parlor wall, refurbish the barn…

“What is all this?” Dean asks.

“Longterm goals,” Cas says. “Also, wishful thinking. With that highway bypass, I’ve been trying to come up with ways to rebrand Grace Hill so it isn’t a one-night tourist stay. I’ve heard of other B&Bs becoming event venues, but first the house and grounds would have to accommodate greater party sizes. It’s  not something that can be done right now…or ever.”

He starts to take the paper back, but Dean presses his fingers down onto it, holding it in place.

“It’s a good plan,” he says. “And Grace Hill is a perfect location. Sure you don’t want me to tackle any of this stuff?” The _while I’m here_ goes unsaid.

Cas shakes his head. “It’s okay. I’ve got more immediate concerns.”

Cas tucks the paper away, then starts rubbing at his forehead, a sure tell that he’s stressed. Instead of leaving, Dean comes around and heaves him out of the chair.

“Come on. You gotta get outta here for a while.”

“I have to finish this…” Cas says, but he is pretty unresisting as Dean leads him out the door and to the Impala. He’s already buckled into the seat by the time Dean rounds the hood and opens his own door.

Part of Dean’s job has always been an itch, a hunger to hit the road. He’s surprised—but, then again, not so surprised—that the craving to move on hasn’t hit him since he came to Grace Hill. Since Cas is silent in the seat next to him, he’s able to calculate how long he’s been at Grace Hill. He came early in July—the seventh, maybe as late as the ninth. It’s the first week of August now. Sometimes, when his palms itch for the feel of the Impala’s steering wheel beneath them, he’ll run an errand into town. Normally it’s enough just to be able to drive her those half hour journeys there and then back, taking the long, winding back roads.

Now he jams a tape into the radio, since the radio’s fuzzing out, and they listen to something old and classic as the sunlight dapples through the windshield. They drive quietly for a few minutes, and then Cas leans forward and looks around with recognition.

“There’s gonna be a dirt road coming up in about a hundred yards,” he says. “Pull into that.”

Dean raises an eyebrow but doesn’t question it, slowing down to turn into a drive almost hidden by the foliage surrounding it. 

“You can drive further in,” Cas says. So Dean drives until they come across an old metal gate with a foreboding NO TRESPASSING sign.

“Cas…” he says. Cas is turned halfway in his seat, facing Dean, and he has a sly smile on his face.

“Anna and Luke and I used to come here all the time growing up,” he says.

“Yeah? Was that sign there then, too?”

Cas gives it a dismissive look. “No one ever caught us,” he says. “Come on.”

Dean hesitates, his hands at his seat buckle. It’s intriguing—okay, a little hot—to see Cas bucking authority. Sure, Dean and Sam did all kinds of things they weren’t supposed to when they were growing up, but Dean was familiar with the area and usually had an idea of just what rule he was breaking and for what reason. The slender dirt road and the old gate gives him little clue as to what Cas is so excited about.

“You got me out of the house,” Cas says. “So are you going to join me, or no?”

“What the hell,” Dean says, and swipes the keys from the ignition as he follows.

They hop the gate and walk another hundred yards before seeing an old house, with the roof caved in, set back in the trees. Cas points beyond it, where there’s another gap in the trees. There, almost perfectly circular, is what to Dean’s Kansas roots could only be called a swimming hole. It’s startlingly deep, the water clear but for the surface scudded with leaves.

“We discovered this by accident,” Cas is saying. “Luke’s first-ever truck broke down back on that road and we came up this driveway, hoping there was someone  who lived here with a landline. This place’s been deserted for years. Anyways, our pond was never as deep as this. Or as clear. And it was never off-limits, so it was entirely too boring. It’s nice, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, and then they exchange knowing looks before it becomes a race to see who can strip off their clothes the fastest. Cas wins—he’s not wearing a t-shirt plus a plaid overshirt, like Dean—although Dean’s not far behind him, splashing into the water up to his knees before the water suddenly drops away, making him shout in surprise. Cas is already striking out across the surface, his body pale beneath the water. He treads water, turning, gesturing Dean to come out further.

“It’s c-cold,” Dean says,  splashing closer. Cas rolls his eyes. Dean gets within arms-length of him and grabs him, pulling Cas to him and, by doing so, accidentally sinking a few inches. He comes up sputtering water.

“Smooth going,” Cas says. He has beads of water across his shoulders and clavicle. His wet hair is slicked back from his forehead. Dean reaches out again, with the intention of pushing him below the surface, but instead can’t help himself, curling a hand around the back of Cas’s neck and pulling him into a kiss. Their feet kick beneath the surface to keep them afloat, occasionally striking each other by accident. Dean is buoyant, weightless. Cas’s hand smoothes a line down his chest, his stomach, diverges to his hip. He has to twist a foot around Dean’s calf to keep their lower bodies from drifting apart. Dean groans into Cas’s mouth when that happens, bringing their soft cocks into alignment below the water. Cas is slippery against him, his hand warm on Dean’s hip, a thin inch of water separating their chests.

They get tired of trying to stay afloat eventually. For a long half hour they loll in the cool water, moving from light to shadow beneath the leaves overhead. Dean tries to hold his breath and find out how deep the pond is. Finally Cas extends a hand with pruny fingers and helps pull Dean to the shore, their feet slipping in silky mud and then grass underfoot. Then they’re standing there, naked, with little bits of grass and leaves clinging to their shins.

“That was nice,” Cas says, leaning over for his jeans. “Like hitting reset. It’s been a while since I could just relax.”

Dean is hopping on one foot, undignified, trying to force his wet leg into his pants. “Worth the rule-breaking ,” careful as he zips up. “What would it take for you to do that in your own pond?”

Cas waits for Dean to come up next to him before turning to walk down the lane. “I don’t know. Maybe one of those docks—those floating docks—in the middle of it. Wouldn’t that be nice, to sit there with a lemonade with your feet in the water?”

“A floating dock, huh?” Dean says, slinging an arm around Cas’s shoulders. “You’re coming up with all the bright ideas these days.”

Later, back at the house, they take a shower, rinsing the pondwater from their skin. They eat. It rains in the evening, Dean can hear it from Cas’s room, with the windows open, hissing down, blowing the curtains out in billows. Cas takes him apart on the wide, white  bed, tonguing down over him before opening his lips around the head of Dean’s cock. Dean squirms against the pillows, against the heat in his belly. Cas’s mouth moves over him for what feels like hours, his nails pricking into Dean’s hips, holding him in place. Dean reaches down and thumbs over the corners of Cas’s lips, pursed around him, watches the bulge in Cas’s cheek where Dean presses against it from the inside. Dean comes—steady, seemingly unending, like something coming unspooled. The rain pours, and Cas turns Dean over and takes him on his stomach, moving in him as liquid as the tide, his stubble rasping against Dean’s neck as he mouths Dean’s name there.  The pleasure fills him, takes Dean like an ache, long after the sweat has dried, and Cas asleep next to him, and the house dissolving into the mist coming off the trees.

**

_~~Clean out gutters~~ _

_~~Fix stair(s?)  on back staircase~~ _

_~~Shingle roof~~ _

_~~New fixtures in Sugar Maple bathroom~~ _

_~~Fix lock—SM bathroom~~ _

_~~Patch hole in drywall—third floor~~ _

_~~Fix 2 loose shutters (front of house)~~ _

_~~Fix henhouse door~~ _

_~~Fix toilet—first floor~~ _

_~~Sticky ignition—second golf cart~~ _

_~~Fix tread on barn door~~ _

_~~Rewire Yellow Birch Room’s lighting~~ _

_~~Fix sump pump~~ _

_~~Sand/polish main hallway floor~~ _

_~~Remove dead tree west side of house~~ _

_~~Fix dryer~~ _

_**_

It’s Sam that brings about the end of it all. He calls Dean while he’s eating lunch, starts in on him. He’s just disappointed. August has melted away, it’s the first week of September, and he hasn’t seen his brother in forever and if Dean keeps on dodging any attempts to pin him down Sam doesn’t know what to think but that Dean is trying to find some way out of coming to California for the wedding, because if not, why the delay? What’s going on? Why can’t Dean give him a straight answer?

Dean is defensive and doesn’t let the conversation go on too long, decides to be an adult and hang up on Sam mid-question. He feels guilty, but nowhere near as guilty as when he turns around and sees Cas has been standing in the doorway the entire time.

He comes and sits down across from him.

“ Dean,” Cas says. “You can’t—anything going on here, it can’t take precedence over your brother.”

“Yeah, thanks, Doctor Phil.”

“I’m serious,” Cas says. “I was afraid it was going to be like this. You’ve done way too much as it is. And I knew I shouldn’t have, but I kept pushing you, asking more—”

“Hey, now. This whole situation has nothing to do with you.”

“It does, though. I know it does. I made you feel bad for me. You’ve been bending over backwards trying to help, and I’ve been taking advantage of that, even though—”

“Christ, don’t give me that.”

“Even though you have a brother getting married across the country. This isn’t right, Dean.”

“Okay, I agreed to it all,” Dean says. “It’s not like I’m doing anything I don’t want to do.”

But—“Your brother, Dean,” Cas says, simply, like that says it all. And maybe it does, knowing what Dean does of Anna, not to mention the other siblings who dispersed, one by one. And Cas warned Dean from the beginning, didn’t he, that he didn’t want Dean to feel like the weight of the whole operation fell on him. No, all that weight fell on Cas alone.

Dean tries to fight it, but Cas refuses to let him help anymore, can’t tell him a single goddamn thing else to add to that godforsaken honey-do list. And even though Dean has plenty of ideas of his own, thank you very much, on what else the B&B needs, it’s not like he can stick around without Cas’s express permission. Even so, he makes it through a forlorn lunch before accepting defeat. He strips down his workshop in the basement, takes his tools and packs them back into the trunk of the Impala.  He trudges upstairs for his bag, balled up in a corner in the Birch Room, and then the rest of his stuff, mixed in with Cas’s on the fourth floor. Even as he does it, he tells himself that he can always come back, after the wedding, a few months from now. There’s no reason why he shouldn’t be able to. He can just pick up where he left off.

When he comes back downstairs Cas takes the long-unused key to the Birch Room with an expressionless face. And Dean knows, it wouldn’t be so awkward and strange if they both knew that Dean could, and would, come back. It feels like something is ending, ending in a way like it’s getting pulled from Dean’s very fingernails.

Cas walks with him to the door and Dean takes his first step out onto the front porch and the plank beneath him lets out this hideous, squealing shriek that would be comical in any other situation. He takes another step and the next sound, if possible, protests even louder. He turns to look at Cas, whose mouth is wavering, like he’s trying not to laugh despite himself. He won’t look at Dean, though.

Dean takes one more step and there’s a loud _skkkkkkreet_ and he throws his duffel down and turns around and says,

“Fucking hell, this is stupid.”

Cas blinks at him.

“Why does this have to go the hard way, Cas? I’ve put my flesh and blood and sweat into Grace Hill over the past two months. It’s like a part of me now. If I leave, I want it to be with my own say-so.”

“If you leave?” Cas repeats.

“This porch is a goddamn mess, half the planks need to be ripped up. The furnace is about to go on the fritz the second it gets cold, you have low drainage on the east side of the house, and the henhouse might as well be burned down to make way for a new one. There’s, there’s—”

Cas is looking at him like he wants Dean to continue, but also like he’s afraid Dean will, too. Dean comes closer and puts his hands on Cas’s shoulders so they’re looking at each other straight.

“I want to stay. Jesus, I do. There’s so much that needs to get done. I wanna be here for the longterm projects, I wanna be here with _you_. Everything else can work itself out if you want it too, Cas. Do you? Would you let me stay?”

Cas almost looks shy. “You would want that? Even with everything that’s been going wrong, even if Grace Hill goes under?”

“Do I gotta sign on the dotted line, or what?”

“No, no,” Cas says, distracted-sounding, and he throws his arms around Dean, hooking his chin over Dean’s shoulder, practically causing his knees to buckle. “Please stay,” he says, in this bitten-off way like he’s been longing to say that all goddamn morning.

Dean lets out a relieved laugh. After a few minutes Cas’s grip loosens and he pulls back. “What about your brother?”

Dean considers. “I think that can work itself out,” he says.

**

One morning in September Dean wakes up and it seems like the leaves have changed overnight. He prods Cas awake to look over the rolling hills or orange, red, yellow, in succession, because it’s so beautiful it’s the kind of thing that needs to be shared.

Dean spends several long days rebuilding the gazebo, using Cas to help hold planks into place when necessary. He finds some paint in the basement and the thing’s barely dry before Sam and Jess come into town. Naturally the first thing that Sam does after pulling into the drive and unloading his luggage is to put his foot through the bottom porch stair by accident. They all kind of goggle, aghast, at the pulverized stair.

“I—uh, sorry,” Sam stammers. “I lost my footing.”

“It’s okay,” Dean says. “It’s been on my list of things to do—probably should have done that already—up you come,” and helps pull Sam free before it gets too awkward.

“Sam, Jess, this is Cas. Cas, Sam and Jess.”

There’s a round of hugs.

“The drive here was beautiful,” Jess says. “The trees—oh my God. I already can’t wait for the pictures.”

“The gazebo’s over there?” Sam asks, squinting in the direction of the pond. “It looks really nice, Dean.”

“You’ll be our guinea pigs,” Dean assures them. “See if we’re really ready to get into all this wedding hoopla.”

Like Dean just happening to be driving through Vermont when the highway was being built, like Sam rolling into town just as the fall foliage is bursting into color, some things are just a matter of timing. Jess and Sam never really wanted a big wedding, either, were tired of trying to plan around everyone else’s needs. They just wanted to be married. Sam could have been pissed when Dean called and explained his situation with Cas and the B&B, and how that factored into him putting off coming back to California yet again. Instead, he and Jess had what Sam called a “strategic elopement.” Their friend Charlie, ordained online, was flying in in two days to marry them. Jess’s parents—the only ones of her family to know—would be here tomorrow. Uncle Bobby, too—essentially, everyone they really wanted to be there, before they gotten bogged down with thinking about venues and guest lists, catering  and RSVPs and seating charts. And now Jess and Sam were going to get married on the gazebo looking over the pond, at the height of fall color, in a place Dean’s come to call home.

Dean doesn’t know if this is gonna work out—if Grace Hill is going to stay afloat, even make it through the winter, before they find out if this event venue idea will ever hold water. He doesn’t even know if this thing with Cas will hold. Somehow it only helps to think in the long-term—to the next spring, when weddings kick into gear again, hoping that he’s gotten the place in order by then, hoping he and Cas can make something together here, something special. A lot of work will need to be done first. It helps that Dean is good with his hands.

“I’m so glad to finally be here,” Sam’s saying now to Cas. “I’ve heard so much about Grace Hill from Dean—heard a lot about you, too—but rounding the corner of the driveway, seeing it for the first time—wow.”

“Thanks,” Cas says. His eyes find Dean, a look that’s somehow private, luminous, despite Sam and Jess’s presence. “We’ve, uh, we’ve put a lot of work into it.”

“Yeah,” Dean echoes. “We really have.”

**

_~~Clean out gutters~~ _

_~~Fix stair(s?)  on back staircase~~ _

_~~Shingle roof~~ _

_~~New fixtures in Sugar Maple bathroom~~ _

_~~Fix lock—SM bathroom~~ _

_~~Patch hole in drywall—third floor~~ _

_~~Fix 2 loose shutters (front of house)~~ _

_~~Fix henhouse door~~ _

_~~Fix toilet—first floor~~ _

_~~Sticky ignition—second golf cart~~ _

_~~Fix tread on barn door~~ _

_~~Rewire Yellow Birch Room’s lighting~~ _

_~~Fix sump pump~~ _

_~~Sand/polish main hallway floor~~ _

_~~Remove dead tree west side of house~~ _

_~~Fix dryer~~ _

_~~Fix porch/stairs ASAP~~ _

_~~Tuxedo rental?~~ _

_~~Rebuild/paint gazebo~~ _

_~~Paint exterior house~~ _

_~~Refurbish and paint barn~~ _

_~~Knock out parlor wall~~ _

_~~Level ground—east side of house~~ _

_~~Need table/chair supplier~~ _

_~~New sign on main road~~ _

_~~New henhouse~~ _

_~~Second round of interviews—on-site wedding coordinator~~ _

_~~Remember pick up flowers in town 17 th ~~ _

_~~Telephone interview—Home and Garden—BIG!!~~ _

_Potential chef hire—Tuesday 23 rd_

_Patch hole in wall behind master bedroom headboard (oops…)_

_Donner wedding 27th—need golf cart to cart grannies to ceremony_

_Cas bday present (floating dock??)_

_Energy-efficient windows—pick up 30 th_

_Cas wants new towels from town (cream, NOT beige)_

_Mend property line fence_

_Call Sam_

_Need more of this goddamn paper—running out!_

_**_

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> paperclothesline.tumblr.com


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